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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Aging / Maturity
- Published: 10/29/2019
Connected By The Past
If after you start reading this story, it sounds familiar, that’s because the idea for it was taken directly from the movie The Intern with Robert Di Niro and Anne Hathaway. I hope you enjoy my version of the tale.
It’s been fifty years since I’ve been back to the old neighborhood. During that time, I’ve lived in several cities and had several jobs, but Brooklyn never left my thoughts, or my heart. And now that my wife has been dead these past two years, and my daughter and her family were forced to move out of state because of my son-in-law’s new promotion, I felt it was time to head back to my old stomping grounds. Of course, my daughter thought I was being foolish, but when you get to my age, you stop worrying about what others think, and do whatever feels right, as long as your health and the law allows it.
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. At my age, why would I want to deal with North East winters again? Are you kidding! After living just outside of Chicago for the past ten years, a winter in Brooklyn seems like nothing by comparison.
So, I came back.
It sure looks different from when I left. There’s all kinds of new corporations. Many of the brownstones have been turned into multi-apartment dwellings. Even what used to be empty lots are now filled with whole rows of shops and/or houses.
I took an apartment in what was once a single-family brownstone a mile from where I had grown up. It’s small but cozy, and is really close to a Starbucks where I go each morning for coffee and a croissant, and to read the newspapers. I’m one of the few holdouts who still likes to feel the newspaper in between his fingers, instead of reading it on the internet.
Once I got settled in, I began to look for things to help fill my days: swimming at the Y, reading at the library, playing chess in the park with some of the other retirees, taking long walks, watching a lot of movies both on TV and in the theaters, going to plays, even visiting many of New York City’s museums. Although my days were pretty well filled, I felt there was something missing . . . that sense of somehow still being connected to the working world.
In my old neighborhood outside of Chicago, I had my daughter and my grandkids to keep me occupied after my wife, Candice, died, but now that I was back in New York, I felt I needed something to make me feel . . . I don’t know— “important”—again. And then I saw something I thought might fit the bill—a notice tacked to a bulletin board outside the bodega where I often shopped. It said a small but thriving clothing business was looking for elderly interns. I thought, why not? If I didn’t like it, no problem; I could always quit. It wasn’t like they were going to hold me to a contract, or give me benefits. I was going to be an unpaid volunteer, so I went for an interview.
After waiting a half hour, I was called into a small, cluttered office by a frazzled-looking young woman who, believe it or not, started the interview with the question: where did I see myself in ten years?
“You mean when I’m 78?” That seemed to throw her a bit, so I said, “Why don’t you ask me about my work experience?” This seemed to settle her down, and then we had a nice long talk about all the places I worked, and the various types of jobs I had over the years. Afterwards, she said she’d call me and let me know if I had the position.
“And what position is that?” I asked. This seemed to put her into a slight tizzy once again.
“Oh, yes,” she said, shuffling through some papers on her desk, and finally pulling one out. After looking at it for a couple of seconds, she smiled and said, “You’ll be helping out our founder and CEO, Jules Abernathy.”
“And what will that entail?” I asked.
Without shifting her smile, she said, “Oh, just a little Xeroxing, maybe some filing, a few errands now and then—maybe even driving her around a bit.” Suddenly, she leaned forward with a worried look in her face. “You do drive, don’t you?”
“Not only do I drive,” I said, “but I know Brooklyn like the back of my hand.” Actually, I didn’t any more, but she didn’t have to know that.
This seemed to put her at ease once again, and she sat back smiling. “Good. Then we’ll call you in a day or so, and let you know if you have the position.”
I stood up, buttoned my suit jacket, shook her hand and told her it was nice talking to her, then left the building, which, for some reason, seemed to call up a memory for me . . . but what it was exactly, I couldn’t quite say.
The business Jules Abernathy had created for herself was an online clothing company for the young and hip, as well as a line of sports clothes for those over fifty. Obviously, it was a thriving concern. In the two years since she had started it, she went from three employees, plus herself, to over two-hundred. I learned all this from looking her up on the internet. If you’re wondering? I’m not computer illiterate. I know my way around the world-wide web. I even have my own Facebook page. I just don’t tweet or text, that’s because I like to write in whole sentences.
When the call came saying I had the job, it was from the same young woman who had interviewed me. She said I could start on Monday. I came in on Saturday to look around, and get a feel for the place. Jules Abernathy wasn’t there, so one of her male staffers, Michael, showed me around. It definitely was a busy place, even on weekends. Many of her young staffers were seated at their stations, taking phone calls about orders and/or handling problems. My chaperone showed me where my desk was, then left to answer a question about a shipping order. Once again, as I looked around the place, which had once been a warehouse, I got a strong sense of nostalgia, but still couldn’t quite pull it all together until . . . . .
Looking out one of the second story windows, I saw some nearby abandoned railroad tracks and the surrounding buildings. That’s when I knew for sure. Shaking my head as if I had just been told the most amazing thing in the world, I saw that the young staffer, Michael, had returned from his conversation with his co-worker.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, looking at me concerned.
“You’re not going to believe this,” I said to him. “But this is the same building my father worked in when I was a kid.”
His eyebrows shot up. “No kidding!” he exclaimed, looking round the building’s interior as if he had never seen it before.
“Yep,” I told him. “It was a print shop back then. He was in charge. His desk used to be right there by that window.”
Once again, Michael replied, showing the same amount of enthusiasm. “Well, welcome back!” he said with a hugely bright smile.
“Thanks,” I replied, thinking that yeah, it did kind of add to the feeling I was home again.
Monday morning, I arrived to work fifteen minutes early. That’s because I started out early, and walked to work. It took me about twenty minutes. If you’re wondering, no, I don’t have a car any more. Once I got back to Brooklyn, I sold it. It became evident pretty fast that I didn’t need it; I’m close to both bus and subway routes.
Even though I brought my laptop with me, when I got to my desk, I found they had one already set up for me. So once I signed on to both my Facebook and personal email accounts, I was all set to go.
That first day, they didn’t have much for me to do, so I spent a lot of the time observing what was going on around me, and meeting some of the people. That’s when I really saw how busy they were. I also had a chance to finally meet and greet Jules Abernathy.
She kind of reminded me a little of my daughter, Abby, with her long dark hair and soulful brown eyes—but definitely more of a dynamic personality than my daughter. Tall and slender, Jules had the face of a model, as well as the drive and stamina of the Energizer Bunny, which might have been one of the reasons her company was so successful.
We only got to talk for a minute or so; she had to go into several meetings, then left as soon as they were over. I stayed busy by looking over their entire inventory on line, and then walking around the building with a pad and pen and taking notes. I know I spooked a few people, but I assured them that I was just one of the new interns who was trying to get a feel for how the place was run. That seemed to placate them, and they went back to whatever it was they were doing.
The next day, I took a ride with one of the employees to the nearby warehouse from where they shipped a lot of their merchandise. It turns out Jules’ warehouse was very close to the street I grew up on. Once again, I felt a strong connection to my youth. But that was nothing compared to the shock I got about a week later when Jules asked me to accompany her to a meeting with a new clothier in Manhattan. I’d already done some small errands for her, and even sat in on a couple of their office meetings, but this was entirely different.
“Why would you want me to go with you to an important meeting like this?” I asked. “Don’t you have employees to do this sort of thing?”
She replied with a bright smile, “Kathy told me about your experience as a buyer for Macys.” Kathy was the woman who had interviewed me.
“Yeah, but that was many, many years ago—way before there were computers.”
“Even so,” replied Jules, looking thoughtful, “I think your input might be useful.”
“Okay,” I agreed, then accompanied her to the limousine that had been waiting to take us into Manhattan. But instead of going straight to down town, the limo started to head in the direction of her company’s warehouse. “We’re going to the warehouse first?” I asked, glancing casually out the window.
“Not really,” she replied. “I have to stop by my place first to pick up a gown I need for an event I’m going to this evening.”
Without really thinking about it, I nodded while continuing to stare out the window until . . . . the limo made a left-hand turn onto a street I knew really well. I turned to my employer shocked. “You live on Copely Street?” I asked, barely able to contain my excitement.
“Yes, why?” she asked, her brow furrowing a little. “Did you know someone who used to live there?”
I beamed. “Yes, me—when I was a kid. That’s where I grew up.”
Now it was her turn to look shocked. “No kidding!” she exclaimed wide-eyed. “What number?”
“Twenty-three, twenty-three.”
Her eyebrows nearly popped off her forehead. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” she exclaimed. “That’s the number I live at!”
We both went silent for a moment, as the limo pulled to a stop in front of the building. Then turning to me, she asked hesitantly. “Would you like to come inside and see what the old homestead looks like after all these years?”
“But aren’t you afraid you’ll be late for your appointment?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll just call him and tell him we were delayed a little; besides,” she said, smiling at me in a daughterly sort of way, “Don’t you want to reminisce a little?”
Returning her smile, I told her it would be nice, and then climbing out of the limousine, I followed her inside.
Connected By The Past(Tom Di Roma)
Connected By The Past
If after you start reading this story, it sounds familiar, that’s because the idea for it was taken directly from the movie The Intern with Robert Di Niro and Anne Hathaway. I hope you enjoy my version of the tale.
It’s been fifty years since I’ve been back to the old neighborhood. During that time, I’ve lived in several cities and had several jobs, but Brooklyn never left my thoughts, or my heart. And now that my wife has been dead these past two years, and my daughter and her family were forced to move out of state because of my son-in-law’s new promotion, I felt it was time to head back to my old stomping grounds. Of course, my daughter thought I was being foolish, but when you get to my age, you stop worrying about what others think, and do whatever feels right, as long as your health and the law allows it.
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. At my age, why would I want to deal with North East winters again? Are you kidding! After living just outside of Chicago for the past ten years, a winter in Brooklyn seems like nothing by comparison.
So, I came back.
It sure looks different from when I left. There’s all kinds of new corporations. Many of the brownstones have been turned into multi-apartment dwellings. Even what used to be empty lots are now filled with whole rows of shops and/or houses.
I took an apartment in what was once a single-family brownstone a mile from where I had grown up. It’s small but cozy, and is really close to a Starbucks where I go each morning for coffee and a croissant, and to read the newspapers. I’m one of the few holdouts who still likes to feel the newspaper in between his fingers, instead of reading it on the internet.
Once I got settled in, I began to look for things to help fill my days: swimming at the Y, reading at the library, playing chess in the park with some of the other retirees, taking long walks, watching a lot of movies both on TV and in the theaters, going to plays, even visiting many of New York City’s museums. Although my days were pretty well filled, I felt there was something missing . . . that sense of somehow still being connected to the working world.
In my old neighborhood outside of Chicago, I had my daughter and my grandkids to keep me occupied after my wife, Candice, died, but now that I was back in New York, I felt I needed something to make me feel . . . I don’t know— “important”—again. And then I saw something I thought might fit the bill—a notice tacked to a bulletin board outside the bodega where I often shopped. It said a small but thriving clothing business was looking for elderly interns. I thought, why not? If I didn’t like it, no problem; I could always quit. It wasn’t like they were going to hold me to a contract, or give me benefits. I was going to be an unpaid volunteer, so I went for an interview.
After waiting a half hour, I was called into a small, cluttered office by a frazzled-looking young woman who, believe it or not, started the interview with the question: where did I see myself in ten years?
“You mean when I’m 78?” That seemed to throw her a bit, so I said, “Why don’t you ask me about my work experience?” This seemed to settle her down, and then we had a nice long talk about all the places I worked, and the various types of jobs I had over the years. Afterwards, she said she’d call me and let me know if I had the position.
“And what position is that?” I asked. This seemed to put her into a slight tizzy once again.
“Oh, yes,” she said, shuffling through some papers on her desk, and finally pulling one out. After looking at it for a couple of seconds, she smiled and said, “You’ll be helping out our founder and CEO, Jules Abernathy.”
“And what will that entail?” I asked.
Without shifting her smile, she said, “Oh, just a little Xeroxing, maybe some filing, a few errands now and then—maybe even driving her around a bit.” Suddenly, she leaned forward with a worried look in her face. “You do drive, don’t you?”
“Not only do I drive,” I said, “but I know Brooklyn like the back of my hand.” Actually, I didn’t any more, but she didn’t have to know that.
This seemed to put her at ease once again, and she sat back smiling. “Good. Then we’ll call you in a day or so, and let you know if you have the position.”
I stood up, buttoned my suit jacket, shook her hand and told her it was nice talking to her, then left the building, which, for some reason, seemed to call up a memory for me . . . but what it was exactly, I couldn’t quite say.
The business Jules Abernathy had created for herself was an online clothing company for the young and hip, as well as a line of sports clothes for those over fifty. Obviously, it was a thriving concern. In the two years since she had started it, she went from three employees, plus herself, to over two-hundred. I learned all this from looking her up on the internet. If you’re wondering? I’m not computer illiterate. I know my way around the world-wide web. I even have my own Facebook page. I just don’t tweet or text, that’s because I like to write in whole sentences.
When the call came saying I had the job, it was from the same young woman who had interviewed me. She said I could start on Monday. I came in on Saturday to look around, and get a feel for the place. Jules Abernathy wasn’t there, so one of her male staffers, Michael, showed me around. It definitely was a busy place, even on weekends. Many of her young staffers were seated at their stations, taking phone calls about orders and/or handling problems. My chaperone showed me where my desk was, then left to answer a question about a shipping order. Once again, as I looked around the place, which had once been a warehouse, I got a strong sense of nostalgia, but still couldn’t quite pull it all together until . . . . .
Looking out one of the second story windows, I saw some nearby abandoned railroad tracks and the surrounding buildings. That’s when I knew for sure. Shaking my head as if I had just been told the most amazing thing in the world, I saw that the young staffer, Michael, had returned from his conversation with his co-worker.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, looking at me concerned.
“You’re not going to believe this,” I said to him. “But this is the same building my father worked in when I was a kid.”
His eyebrows shot up. “No kidding!” he exclaimed, looking round the building’s interior as if he had never seen it before.
“Yep,” I told him. “It was a print shop back then. He was in charge. His desk used to be right there by that window.”
Once again, Michael replied, showing the same amount of enthusiasm. “Well, welcome back!” he said with a hugely bright smile.
“Thanks,” I replied, thinking that yeah, it did kind of add to the feeling I was home again.
Monday morning, I arrived to work fifteen minutes early. That’s because I started out early, and walked to work. It took me about twenty minutes. If you’re wondering, no, I don’t have a car any more. Once I got back to Brooklyn, I sold it. It became evident pretty fast that I didn’t need it; I’m close to both bus and subway routes.
Even though I brought my laptop with me, when I got to my desk, I found they had one already set up for me. So once I signed on to both my Facebook and personal email accounts, I was all set to go.
That first day, they didn’t have much for me to do, so I spent a lot of the time observing what was going on around me, and meeting some of the people. That’s when I really saw how busy they were. I also had a chance to finally meet and greet Jules Abernathy.
She kind of reminded me a little of my daughter, Abby, with her long dark hair and soulful brown eyes—but definitely more of a dynamic personality than my daughter. Tall and slender, Jules had the face of a model, as well as the drive and stamina of the Energizer Bunny, which might have been one of the reasons her company was so successful.
We only got to talk for a minute or so; she had to go into several meetings, then left as soon as they were over. I stayed busy by looking over their entire inventory on line, and then walking around the building with a pad and pen and taking notes. I know I spooked a few people, but I assured them that I was just one of the new interns who was trying to get a feel for how the place was run. That seemed to placate them, and they went back to whatever it was they were doing.
The next day, I took a ride with one of the employees to the nearby warehouse from where they shipped a lot of their merchandise. It turns out Jules’ warehouse was very close to the street I grew up on. Once again, I felt a strong connection to my youth. But that was nothing compared to the shock I got about a week later when Jules asked me to accompany her to a meeting with a new clothier in Manhattan. I’d already done some small errands for her, and even sat in on a couple of their office meetings, but this was entirely different.
“Why would you want me to go with you to an important meeting like this?” I asked. “Don’t you have employees to do this sort of thing?”
She replied with a bright smile, “Kathy told me about your experience as a buyer for Macys.” Kathy was the woman who had interviewed me.
“Yeah, but that was many, many years ago—way before there were computers.”
“Even so,” replied Jules, looking thoughtful, “I think your input might be useful.”
“Okay,” I agreed, then accompanied her to the limousine that had been waiting to take us into Manhattan. But instead of going straight to down town, the limo started to head in the direction of her company’s warehouse. “We’re going to the warehouse first?” I asked, glancing casually out the window.
“Not really,” she replied. “I have to stop by my place first to pick up a gown I need for an event I’m going to this evening.”
Without really thinking about it, I nodded while continuing to stare out the window until . . . . the limo made a left-hand turn onto a street I knew really well. I turned to my employer shocked. “You live on Copely Street?” I asked, barely able to contain my excitement.
“Yes, why?” she asked, her brow furrowing a little. “Did you know someone who used to live there?”
I beamed. “Yes, me—when I was a kid. That’s where I grew up.”
Now it was her turn to look shocked. “No kidding!” she exclaimed wide-eyed. “What number?”
“Twenty-three, twenty-three.”
Her eyebrows nearly popped off her forehead. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” she exclaimed. “That’s the number I live at!”
We both went silent for a moment, as the limo pulled to a stop in front of the building. Then turning to me, she asked hesitantly. “Would you like to come inside and see what the old homestead looks like after all these years?”
“But aren’t you afraid you’ll be late for your appointment?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll just call him and tell him we were delayed a little; besides,” she said, smiling at me in a daughterly sort of way, “Don’t you want to reminisce a little?”
Returning her smile, I told her it would be nice, and then climbing out of the limousine, I followed her inside.
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